


What Does Love Taste Like?

by quillquiver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AO3 1 Million, All the cheese, Alternate Universe - High School, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Valentine's Day, seriously, so much cheese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1191585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillquiver/pseuds/quillquiver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Milton is too nice, too serious, too smart to ever even consider dating a stupid jock like Dean Winchester. They’re friends. Well, no, they’re acquaintances. But it’s cool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Does Love Taste Like?

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's late, but I wanted to do something for Valentine's Day... hope you like it!

Dean hates Valentine’s Day. Hates it. With a fiery, burning passion. He hates the pink, and the stupid little hearts, and how ridiculously empty and forced and fake everything feels. He hates the gossiping, and the giggling, but mostly, he hates that the one person he actually wants all that lovey-dovey crap with will never give him the time of day. Damn straight, too… Castiel Milton is too nice, too serious, too  _smart_  to ever even  _consider_  dating a stupid jock like Dean Winchester.

They’re friends. Well, no, they’re acquaintances. But it’s cool.

Fiddling with his locker door, Dean finally manages to get the damn thing open, stifling a groan at the meaningless pieces of construction paper that tumble to the floor from between his books. He picks them up with an exasperated sigh, frowning at the plain envelope at the bottom of the pile. It’s stiff; made of old-looking paper and with his name scrawled neatly on the front.

Fingering the edge of the envelope lightly, Dean bites his lip before sitting up against his locker, smiling in that scripted way he knows how when people jostle him with a grin, or a giggle, or say ‘hi’. He shoves all the other cards into his bag with nary a second thought. Carefully opening the envelope, Dean let his eyes roam over the same neat scrawl:

_What does love taste like?_

_Love tastes like flowers. Honeysuckles and violets and orchids, love is delicate and beautiful and smells like summer. It’s the bees buzzing in a warm breeze and the trees reaching up toward the sky, an umbrella of shade against the sweltering heat of the sun. It is cool and pleasant and because it is so it is also blue; the blue of the ocean and freshly picked berries straight from the bush, colouring your fingers and teeth as you kiss away purple from stained lips, smiling and giggling in an empty green field._

_Love tastes like colour; a rainbow of feeling and emotion that you can see when you look into a heart, that you can hear when you press your ear to a ribcage. It is happy and sad, light and dark, the sweetest melody and the most melancholy one. Love tastes like red. A red kite against a clear sky; calm and safe and relaxing. A rose; thorny but delicate. The flush of your cheeks as you lay back, soul bared in all your glory, for that one person who trails warmth and red-hot fire along your skin, swollen lips against blushing flesh._

_Because love tastes like warmth. Like a fire crackling in the dead of winter, bathing the room in soft light as your read your favourite novel, or the steam of the backseat as you grapple at each other, sweaty and desperate and awash with glorious colour. It tastes like nervousness that makes your stomach flip in the most pleasant way, like pain that hurts too good, and like fire that burns too hot. Sometimes, love tastes like war. And red and heat come crashing together on a battlefield, leaving you the sole survivor to climb over death and destruction and agony. Here, it tastes like smoke. Here, it tastes like grief ._

_Love tastes like a whole burning through the Universe._

_And it tastes like sin. Like something forbidden and timeless and wonderful; a red apple, shiny and smooth and held in your hands as you take a bite, sweet juice running down your chin. Like knowledge and power and purity._

_Like a child, reaching for the sky, playing in trees, with mud covered toes and tangled hair; love tastes like wildness. It extends up to twinkling lights, crying out to the ever-expanding blackness: Look at me! See me reach! See me grasp at stardust!_

_What does love taste like?_

_It tastes like_ **you** _._

Dean feels like his heart is in his throat.

He grips the paper tightly, not even hearing the bell as the hallways empty. He reads the letter once, twice, three times and he’s sure his face is beat red, but he can’t stop. Because this isn’t chocolate, or a simple ‘be my Valentine’, or even a secret admirer note, asking to meet after school. This is soul-bearing poetry. This is somebody writing in a way that makes Dean feel like they see  _him_. Like they get past all the bullshit and see into his darkest parts and still want him—still  _love_ him.

It’s girly as all hell, and Dean wants to fucking  _bask in it_.

He’s basically floating when he’s wrangled back to class, slipping into his seat with a bitten lip and goofy smile. Dean misses the way Benny and Jo eye him skeptically, and the way Castiel nervously shifts in the seat behind him, head down and knuckles white. He misses Mr. Henricksen’s lecture completely. In fact, it’s only at the end of class that Dean clues in to anything… And all because of a notebook.

‘Cause suddenly, there’s this loud clattering noise and Dean’s vision is pull to the floor right by his desk where a notebook lies open, the same scrawl from the letter lining the page neat and simple as you please.

Dean Winchester is forced to reality so harshly he’s almost winded.

He immediately reaches for the book, hand colliding with someone else’s as he looks to the right, green eyes widening as they meet bright blue. Cas is blushing all the way down his neck as he mutters an apology, and Dean can barely think because  _holy shit this is Cas who wrote the letter and said all those things and he’s normally cool as a frikken cucumber but here he is all red and gorgeous and lovely and God does he really think like that because there’s so much love_ —

And then he’s fucking  _gone_.

Dean only barely sees him race out the door before he’s shot out of his seat like a rocket, forgetting his bag. The letter clutched tightly in his hand as he makes a beeline for the dark-haired boy, calling out his name and making a scene like the asshole he is while Castiel ignores him, pushing further and further until they’re outside and it’s pouring rain and there are no more people blocking the way and Dean can just run up to him and tell him to  _stop_.

“Cas,” Dean breathes.

Cas word vomits. “I’m sorry, it was stupid. I never should have written it. You’re too popular and handsome and you like sports and I just thought- Insanity. It was a moment of insanity. Dean, I am so-”

“Hey hey, slow down, Ricky Bobby.”

And because he wouldn’t be Cas otherwise, the dark-haired boy manages a small, puzzled frown. “I don’t-”

“Did you mean it?”

“…I-”

“Cas, did you mean it?” Dean’s voice is desperate and urgent and he totally can’t bring himself to care because this is Cas they’re talking about, and goddamn if he hasn’t wanted this since the nerdy little dude had helped him out with Spanish over a year ago.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. It’s soft and hesitant, and the way he looks down makes Dean’s stomach clench, because  _Jesus_ , for a smart guy he can be so freakin’ dumb.

So Dean fixes it the only way he knows how.

Leaning forward, he catches Cas’ top lip between his, delivering a soft kiss to its chapped surface before forcibly pulling himself away, hands carefully at his sides. “Cas, I’m not… I don’t do fancy speeches, not like you,” he says softly. “But c’mon, man, you gotta- you had to know. I mean, the way I-”

And this time it’s Castiel that is doing the cutting off, mouth clumsy and wet and warm. He clutches at Dean like a lifeline as he makes small noises of contentment and pleasure, other hands tangling in his dark-hair. Dean is practically buzzing against him as he nips and lick as Cas’ mouth, one hand travelling down to wrap tightly around Castiel’s waist. “Be my Valentine,” he says against kiss-swollen lips, humming at the way Cas’ fingers tighten at his belt loops. “Please. Say you’ll be my Valentine.”

It’s the most embarrassing, girly thing he’s ever said, but Dean can’t bring himself to care, not with the way Cas nods and sighs in agreement, dripping wet but smiling brightly against a hot mouth. Castiel pulls away hesitantly, hands cupping Dean’s face soft and gentle like he’s going to break as his grin turns bashful. “Only if you’ll be mine.” 

Dean kisses him stupid by way of answer. 


End file.
